


My Reason

by Desdimonda



Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, Current expansion timeline, F/M, Post-res Illidan, Reunion, World of Warcraft: Legion Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9243833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: Illidan is finding it difficult adjusting to life after being granted well...life, and he gets a visit from the last person he expected. And the only person he wanted.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't intend this to be so long. And now I think I might actually make this several chapters long.... We'll see how it goes. I hope you enjoy. <3

“I have told you this before, and I will say it again,” said Tyrande, as she gazed up at her mate, her voice firm, her words unforgiving, “Only the goddess can command me. No one–not even you. Only Elune, guides my will.”

After she spoke, she held his gaze as strongly as her words. And despite the audience that had paused, gathered around them on Krasus Landing, all Tyrande could hear was the beat of her heart, heavy in her ears. The sun was low, and its orange hue crested behind Malfurion’s head, shadowing his ears–ears that were slanted high in his plethora of emotion, and tipped with anger. There was so much to be angry at in Azeroth–in their lives–but he chose  _ her. _

Malfurion’s face had tried to remain impassive, but he seethed through gritted teeth, the glow of his tattoos pushed past blue, and shone the blinding white of the moon.

“Has he asked for you?” He tried to understand his wife’s choices, but he couldn’t. There was no-one more undeserving of her presence … than Illidan. Yet she was fighting for him.

“What does it matter if he has?” challenged Tyrande. She knew that would warrant a response from her mate, but her patience was thin. Stretched. And she was  _ tired. _

Malfurion took a step closer, closing the gap that remained between them. Tyrande stepped back.

“So he has. And you go–willingly, at his beck and call?”

Tyrande closed her eyes, then, trying to understand. Illidan hadn’t requested her company. She knew he never would. But the fact that Malfurion thought he had–Tyrande didn’t know if her husband was more upset that she had answered, or that Illidan hadn’t called for  _ him _ .

“I choose to see him, Malfurion,” she said, opening her eyes. “And I do this, freely.”

“We need you, Tyrande,” he said, reaching out to grasp her arm, but pausing, he caught himself. No. He wouldn’t stoop to that. He wouldn’t restrain her, like that. “I, need you.”

At that, Tyrande stepped forward, their bodies a breath apart, and reached up to push aside a fallen shock of green hair, tucking it behind a tilted ear. “You have me. You have your druids, Cenarius, the night elves, the whole of the Alliance at your back, and more.” She paused, catching the tip of an eyebrow between thumb and finger, stroking lightly. “Who does he have?”

“I … he has his Illidari. He–”

“–A bruised and fragile family, still so raw, Malfurion. Surely you can see that,” she tried, pulling away her hand, and taking another step back. She wanted to leave, before he tried to stop her. Again.

“ _ I _ need you,” he pleaded again. As soon as the words tumbled past his lips, he felt shame. For he knew he was not worthy.

“I gave my all to find you. And save you. And this.  _ This  _ is the most you have looked at me since. This is the most you have cared. I do not resent you for it. There is so much that is of greater import beyond us; beyond our love. But do not plead with me, now of all times, that you need me, when I have  _ always  _ been there.”

The last thing she saw as she turned away, was Malfurion’s eyes. The light was almost extinguished, and the pain on his face was etched there like a scar.

Krasus landing held it’s breath as she walked to the edge where a snowy gryphon awaited. And she walked tall, slowly, steadily, every step laboured and purposeful, because she was sure that she would give in - fall - if even for a moment, she stopped.

* * *

 

Why was the world so loud? Had it been like this, before he fell? Even in Mardum, aboard the Fel Hammer–where he had come to seek refuge, quiet, from the noise of Azeroth–it was so  _ loud.  _ The world beneath them was barren, bubbling only with volcanos of fel as they broke the surface of the shattered land. But aboard the Fel Hammer, there was life. There was excitement, and a thousand sightless eyes that turned to him, that wanted him, that sought his attention and validation. When he fell at the Temple, he never believed he would be with them again. And he hurt for them, too, knowing what was to become of them upon their return from Marfum. That the Wardens waited. Mardum had been where his Illidari had begun; most with no-where left to turn - lost, hurt, desperate. And now they had returned to him. A powerful, united entity. They were the one thing in his life that he could be proud of, and he didn’t know how to show them. So he hid.

Currently, he was sat atop the Fel Hammer, wings curved around his body defensively. Illidan had taken his first breaths of life, days before, and his strength had come back, renewed. He knew why they had brought him back; he knew his purpose. His only purpose. And he had answered. Gladly. But as the days unfolded, as the adrenaline of his return had faded, so had he.

He was loathe to bare it before his Illidari–he didn’t want to show weakness before them. He couldn’t. They needed him; the whole damn world needed him. And that was precisely why he sat atop the Fel Hammer, alone. 

They were smart. They knew more than they let on. But some found it harder to hide than others. He could barely move without feeling Allari’s worried presence paces away and her spectral gaze, looking him up and down. Had he thanked her yet for leading the pursuit to bring him back? Had he honestly, simply, thanked any of them? 

Illidan pressed his fingers into the taut muscle of his neck. He had barely slept since his return, and his body was resisting. It was a mixture of not being able to, and not wanting to. Death–although it wasn’t a  _ true  _ death, had give him rest enough, he had concluded. So it was time to do. To see. To talk. To think. And as soon as he started any of the above, he immediately wanted to stop. And so, he found himself here. Hiding. 

He huffed a sigh of frustration, his wings stretching as he looked through the Fel Hammer with his spectral sight. There was a small group of Illidari huddled by the portal to Dalaran, the energy of their bodies, nervous. Excited. Worried. Something was happening. If it was of import, they would summon him–wouldn’t they? He stopped pretending that they hadn’t realised where he had went. There were few places one could hide on a captured Legion ship. Demon hunters also had quite the skill for seeing through surfaces at will–but he was glad they had given him some peace. Some serenity, to wallow in … this.

In his pity. Pity at once again shouldering the weight of his choices. Of his burden. Of … him. Born with eyes of gold that promised greatness. And greatness he had wielded; with terror, with anger, labelled nothing more than a betrayer by his people and those he had loved. Those he …  _ still _ loved. Beyond his Illidari, was there anyone left for him? Illidan dragged his fingers down his neck, spectral eyes still watching the group of hunters at the portal, which at their spearhead stood Altruis, Kayn a few paces behind. Even Altruis–who had disagreed with him, turned away from him–had found stability again with his people and his Lord, and lead. Was this just because the world was ending? Probably.

Letting his spectral gaze fade, Illidan tilted back his head. His horns felt heavier since his return. It felt like he was relearning his body, and it hurt. His head pulsed with an ache, and he tried to remember the best way to ease it. Arcane was harsh on a mage’s body, and his Moon Guard–especially in their youth–had struggled with headaches so strong they had blurred their vision. Why couldn’t he remember a remedy? Why couldn’t he remember  _ them?  _

“My Lord?” 

Illidan turned his head sharply toward the voice, activating his sight. It was Kayn. And he stood, almost crouched humbly, his wings extended as he gazed up at his Lord, awaiting approval. When had he approached? Illidan hadn’t even noticed, so lost in his wallow. 

“Yes, Kayn?” he said, his voice rough from misuse. 

“You …” he began, unsure of how to finish. “You have a visitor.”

Someone was here to see him? He rolled his shoulders, feeling the muscles stretch and he sighed. Of course there was. They needed him. Wanted him. It was probably Khadgar or an emissary from the Alliance or the Horde. He scoffed at the thought. They still cared about factions, at a time like this. At least his Illidari didn’t. 

“Who is it?” he asked as he began to rise, resigned to the fact that he had to stop hiding. He had to start living. Again. 

At that, Kayn paused. His wings twitched, and he bowed his head, a lock of black hair falling past his bare shoulder before he looked back up with the smallest of smiles.

“Tyrande.”

* * *

 

Illidan had sat, motionless, silent, as he tried to believe Kayn. For it couldn’t be true...could it? She couldn’t have come,  _ wanting _ to see him? If this was business, she would have sent an envoy. So why–why had she come? Out of pity? Out of anger? To express her disdain at his return? But the more he thought about just being with her, the more he didn’t care.

He had given Kayn no reply as he made his decision, and glided down from his spot atop the Fel Hammer to the deck below. Kayn hadn’t expected an answer, and simply followed. Now, he knew what the disturbance at the portal was for.  _ Whom _ , it was for. And when he approached, his Illidari parting soundlessly for their Lord, he didn’t know if this was the right thing to do, or the only thing he could do.

She wasn’t here. He knew that at once, as his feet touched ground again. Where then, was she?

“Altruis–where–” He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t need to. 

The broad hunter, who turned away from a glaring Allari, looked to his Lord. “Tyrande–she is just beyond the portal. I was on duty on the other side when she approached. She–” He paused, trying to gauge his Lord’s reaction. But he just watched. Listened. “–She wanted to come through. But this is no place for a Priestess of Elune.” He looked down, apologetically. “For her.”

Illidan said nothing. But as he walked past Altruis, he set a hand on his shoulder in thanks, before he stepped through the portal. The cold brush of magic pulled his body through to the other side, where she waited.

* * *

 

Had her offer been refused? Did he not want to see her? Tyrande could not blame him if he never stepped through that portal again. They had asked the world of him, after they had taken it from him, time and time again. Even if some of acts were just of punishment, they were sometimes the only things left to do to survive. Tyrande knew she wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him.

She gazed up at the sky. Clear. Elune’s light shining so brightly since Ysera’s fall. Tyrande touched her chest, as she remembered. Loss. There had been so much in such a short time that they had barely found the time to mourn. What hurt her the most, was that she’d had to mourn, alone. Malfurion had been so consumed with the Nightmare; with what had befallen Cenarius, that he had barely looked her way. Ysera’s death had only made him fall further into his own nightmare and more determined to try and save his mentor. She tried not to fault him. If Cenarius was lost, she had worried that it would only have been a matter of time before Malfurion  _ let  _ the Nightmare take him. He had taken Fandral’s betrayal, hard. Ever since he had woken from his long slumber, Tyrande felt like he was constantly trying to prove himself. His worth, to the world. But in doing so, he forgot to look back and remember his worth, to her.

Touching the ring that hung against her breast -a reminder of the union at Teldrassil; from their belated marriage- she remembered Ysera’s words to her mate.

_ ‘Be worthy of her’ _

Tyrande closed her eyes as she leaned against the tree she stood beneath, its bark rough against her shoulder. 

And then, she felt  _ him _ . A coil of magic arced in the air as the portal behind her, shifted. She turned, pushing off from the tree, and gazed upon Illidan. 

Worth. He had never believed himself worthy of her, but he had never stopped  _ trying.  _ He had never stopped  _ wanting  _ to be worthy of her. And that alone, she thought, almost made him so.

She smiled, letting the ring slip from her hold. His wings were dismissed, and his eyes - oh his eyes - they were unbound, and beneath the fel green that shone, she remembered what they once were, all those thousands of years ago. 

For if she believed that the night elf she knew, and cared for, was still beneath the hunter’s visage - that Illidan had not been consumed by all that he had become - then maybe, this would be different. Maybe, this choice she had made, was right.

* * *

 

As Tyrande turned to him, he didn’t need spectral sight; he didn’t need  _ any  _ sight to see her. Because he already knew her. Every detail of her radiated beneath Elune’s light, and he could almost feel her body, her features, etched out before him. But even that, he did not need. For he had his memory. His memory of her, when they were so young; when she smiled, laughed–and that singular time they had kissed. It was one of the few memories that had given him comfort on those endless, lonely, dark days in imprisonment; her memory, had held him together. Tyrande, was his reason.

And she was here.

“Leave us,” he said to the remaining Illidari who guarded the portal. They might have protested at any other time. But not now. And as they stepped through the portal, the magic hissing behind them; all that remained on the small island floating outside of Dalaran, was Tyrande and Illidan.

He took a step closer. Then another. And stopped. He wanted to run to her side; to wrap his arms around her, and to tell her what his heart sung. But restrained himself. Tyrande deserved every ounce of respect, and he deserved nothing from her.

“You came,” he said, his words barely a whisper. “Why?”

Tyrande knew he wouldn’t come any closer. He was withdrawn, his bulk pulled back to make himself small, and his great, horned head was dipped, submissively. It was if he didn’t want to take up any space, and wanted to give her all he could. And that small gesture spoke so loudly to Tyrande. She stepped forward, her long white gown flowing between her legs, making her steps look as if she walked on air; wistful. She stopped, a pace away, close enough to touch. 

“We brought you back, because we had lost all hope,” she began, her eyes following the curve of his tattoos, shining so brightly against his chest. A chest that rose and fell so quickly. “After...all we have done to you, we ask the world of you.”

“It is my burden to bear; my wrongs to right,” he said, words so breathy they were almost lost in his throat. He could feel her eyes wash over him, and he almost collapsed to his knees at their proximity. Her scent–she smelled just like she had in their youth. Moonblossom; the sweet edge of vanilla, touched with the warmth of earth. 

“But has anyone come to simply ask how you are?” She raised a hand, shaky, but as she spoke, she slid warm fingers along the side of his face, the tips gracing the scarred skin around his eyes. She had remembered him, before he fell at the Temple. But when was the last time she had truly  _ looked  _ at him. Felt him. Touched him. Been near him, like this. Years of hatred, anger, mistrust had built up inside her, fueled by her mate, and she had built up an image of what the world thought he was; what they thought he  _ should  _ be. But as he stood here before her, bare, submissive, broken–longing–he didn’t look like the Lord, the Betrayer. He had never looked more like  _ Illidan.  _

When her fingers trailed over his face, he had to remind himself to  _ breathe.  _ How long had it been since someone had simply … touched him? And that it was now Tyrande who did. That she deemed him worthy of this. That she did not run. That she was not repulsed by what he had become. His eyes closed, and on instinct, he leaned into her touch; hopeful, wistful.

“It doesn’t matter how I am,” he said, so unused to being asked that question. “All that matters, is that you are here.” The words came without thought. It was not his place to speak them, but he did; Tyrande’s heart belonged to his twin. Yet … here she was. He reached up a hand to cover hers, and to his surprise, she let him. 

She smiled at his words. They were so genuine, loving, and intense. And as she thought back, that was all Illidan had even been, to  _ her.  _

“When I heard your Illidari were bringing you back to the living, I - I didn’t know how to feel,” she said, feeling his fingers slide between hers. Her hand shook. Her heart lurched, missing a beat. “I spoke to Elune, at length, asking for her guidance. Asking her if we took the right steps down an arduous path. But I had little answer from her. And now I see why. For she knew the answer lay within me, unchecked, dormant. She knew I would find it, when the time was right.” She paused, drawing a thumb beneath his eye, feeling the ridges of scarred skin. “And I did.”

Staring at her, with sightless eyes, Illidan couldn’t stop himself from using his spectral sight, and bathed beneath Elune’s rays, he saw her, so clearly. The outline of her nose, bumped on the ridge; the slant of eyebrows, raised; the slight part of her lips. And he felt like he looked into the face of Elune, herself. 

“All I ever did, was hurt you and this world,” he said, his words broken, thick with emotion. “I do not deserve to take another breath, yet you give me hope. You give me...this.”

Tyrande closed her eyes, and took another step, closing the gap that remained between them. Lightly, she tilted her forehead to his chin, and remembered. Remembered all the good, he had done. Remembered why he had done what he had. 

Because there was no other way. 

“Your brother and I–we were quick to cast judgement on you and the Highborne. We were short sighted and so consumed with the perceived safety of our people we could barely see our own faults; our own, wrongs.”

Illidan took a shuddering breath as she leaned into him, the brush of her dress glancing against his skin. All of what the world asked of him was worth it, for this. For her.

“But you have endured. Our people survived, because of you … and Malfurion,” he said, his arm hovering by her side. He longed to wrap it around her, to pull her close. To embrace her. But he had no right. 

Tyrande turned her head at that, a shock of green hair dragging against his chin. “Now is not the time to argue about right and wrong. About a past that can never be changed.”

“Then … what is it for?” asked Illidan, his fingers glancing along her side. 

“For this.”

And she pressed her body to his, arms wrapping around him tightly, her head burying into the crook of his neck. Lips dragged against his skin, catching on a patch of scales. Fingers slid across his back; over the ridges where his wings extended, savagely. But she did not flinch. She held. She touched.

And Illidan remembered what it felt like to be loved. 

He closed his eyes, dismissing his spectral sight. For in that black, sightless moment–with just the whip of the night’s breeze rustling through the leaves–he could pretend that he was not hunter; not Lord, not their chosen. Just, hers.

  
  



End file.
